


Selva Oscura

by thinkatory



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe, Attempted Murder, Cannibalism, Canon-Typical Violence, Cults, F/M, Id Fic, Knifeplay, Lima Syndrome, M/M, Nonnies Made Me Do It, Stockholm Syndrome, Underage Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-14
Updated: 2019-09-14
Packaged: 2020-10-11 05:00:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,069
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20540519
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thinkatory/pseuds/thinkatory
Summary: FBI Agent Will Graham goes in deep cover to investigate the Church of Inherent Light, led by one Hannibal Lecter.





	Selva Oscura

**Author's Note:**

  * In response to a prompt by [thinkatory](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thinkatory/pseuds/thinkatory) in the [iibb2019](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/iibb2019) collection. 

> This is a Dead Dove Do Not Eat situation. Things get pretty grisly and kinky in here.
> 
> Title a reference to Dante's Inferno.
> 
> So much credit goes to El, who went above and beyond betaing this piece to get it to this point.

_Midway upon the journey of our life_  
_I found myself within a forest dark,_  
_For the straightforward pathway Had Been lost._  
\- Dante's Inferno

* * *

Will Graham is never called to an office without a reason, so he just waits for Jack Crawford to get around to it.

"You know," Jack says, leaning forward in the chair parked next to Will's, "everyone says you and Peterson did a great job on that Graceland case."

"You don't need to flatter me." Will glances away. "I know you called me here for a reason; let's get to it."

"Okay," Jack allows, and reaches for a file on the desk. "I assume you haven't heard of the Church of Inherent Light."

"No." Will looks at the file Jack is holding. "A cult? That doesn't seem to be the sort of thing that's usually under your purview."

Jack smiles, though he's obviously not exactly amused. "It's atypical." He offers the file to Will. "Take a look."

Will takes the file and opens it. Inside there's some paperwork, as well as a few pictures of a wooded area, strange tall gray-white fixtures some thousand feet away. Next is a handwritten note.

"That's from the first person we embedded with Inherent Light," Jack says. "We got it after three weeks of her time there. It's the only communication we've gotten from her."

Will glances back down to the note, written in shaky, hurried script.

_To those who sent me:  
I have no choice but to offer myself up to the Church's absolution for the sins I committed against them._

_Don't send anyone to follow me. He will strike back at unbelievers with great wrath and so many innocents will die. May the gods bless my soul for this._

_\- H. Etheridge_

"'He will strike back with great wrath'," Will notes.

"We need to know for sure what 'wrath' this leader has in store for us when we do take him down," Jack says, to the point. "Guns. Worse, maybe. Something we can pin these bastards down with. If we can figure out what happened to Etheridge, all the better."

"What's so atypical?" Will asks, cutting to the point. "How did you get this case?"

"A woman left." Jack keeps Will's gaze. "She was suicidal. Said her flesh was unacceptable for the Church. They thought it was some twisted form of self-loathing. Based on the stage three cancer they discovered before she successfully killed herself, I have my doubts."

Will looks down at the pictures again, seeing the gray-white structures in a very different, concerning light. "This is the closest you've gotten to the compound?" he asks, gesturing with the pictures. "Do we even know what this is?"

Jack offers a thin smile. "Any closer than that and you walk into traps. They don't need to know we're on their trail."

"I don't know, Jack, I think they already know." Will raises his eyebrows. "They'll be expecting me."

"I chose you for a reason, Will." Jack sits back, looking faintly amused. "You're not a cop."

Will gives a short laugh. "I'm not?" 

"Not to the untrained eye. Etheridge was young, we gave her the profile to play, but I think they saw the 'sin' of being law enforcement written all over her face after enough time," Jack says, grim but casual. "You're different from the rest of us. Everyone knows that. I think that makes you uniquely able to become one of them and find the truth."

Will considers that. He's not wrong. Even when he was a cop, no one ever pegged him as a cop once he was no longer a uniform. And, he has to admit, the puzzle has already begun to intrigue him. "When do I start?"

"We'll start to ingratiate you as soon as possible," Jack answers, with a satisfied expression. "You'll need to listen to all of Lecter's recordings before you go. You should be at Inherent Light's compound within two weeks."

"Lecter," Will repeats.

"The leader." Jack gives a little shrug. "The profile's simple. Classic narcissist conman using platitudes and pseudoscience to drag in the weak and insecure."

Will has his doubts that it's so simple, if he destroyed an FBI agent's willpower within weeks. But he keeps it to himself. There's time enough to prove to Jack what he already suspects.

"Let's get started," he says.

* * *

_ **Week 1.** _

The tapes are… instructive. Lecter speaks gently into the microphone about releasing the inherent light in each person in order to be blessed by unknowable gods and freed from suffering. He talks about transcending human limitations and the sacrifices that must be made. 

"Are you ready?" Lecter asks over the tapes. "Are you ready to see the truth? When the time comes, will the scales fall from your eyes? Can you transcend human weakness and all of your physical suffering once and for all?"

Will is not the weak sort of mind who falls for these things, but he has to admit that Lecter sounds concerned and determined all at once as he speaks in each recording - like a psychologist's advice, something that could draw in someone prone to attending such a professional.

Will doesn't see psychologists. That might be why the tapes aren't working.

The Church of Inherent Light lives on a large plot of land in upstate New York. Will arranges to join a group of intrigued believers on a small bus headed to the compound, and wonders if he ought to make friends. He's never been particularly good at that. Luckily, some of the more neurotic, manic sorts start to chatter to each other and fill the awkward silence, and he's freed to look out the window.

The compound is hidden, to put it lightly. As they draw closer, he knows to look for the rudimentary animal and rope traps strategically placed around the border, and sees them dotting the way inside.

"Are you always this curious?"

He turns to face the woman speaking to him, surprised. She sits with her hands clasped in her lap, long red hair fastened in a clip near the base of her neck, wearing a faint smile. She seems more confident than the others. It puts him on edge.

"Yes," Will finally answers, tentative.

"I suppose we all must be a little curious." Her smile widens, just a little. "To come all the way here and see what the Professor has to offer."

A selective truth will work for now. "I needed to know."

"Oh, so did I." She offers her hand. "I'm Felicia."

Introductions. Conversations. They're always a little much for him. He shakes her hand anyway. "Will."

"Will," she repeats, as though to commit it to memory. "I've got a good feeling about this place, you know. Just getting away, getting some distance from the problems of the real world."

"Isn't this the real world?" Will asks, eyebrows raised.

"Of course not," Felicia says, that little smile still perched on her lips. "This is a safe place. The real world isn't safe. Not even a little."

His instinct is skepticism, but he supposes she has a salient point. "I've never been to a place like this."

"I don't think there are any other places like this," she says thoughtfully. "Not with anything like what the Professor has to offer." She glances away and tilts her head. "The human experience is so limiting. I want to know what it'll take to come out the other side."

He reminds himself he's still dealing with those weak-minded enough to be drawn into a cult. "You're right," he says. "I'm sure this is going to be something special."

She continues on with niceties. He's prepared his lies well in advance. Eventually she smiles and sits back, upon realizing he's disengaged from the conversation, and he thinks about Jack's suspicions as the bus pulls into the compound.

Even if they haven't resorted to what he and Jack suspect, this is not a safe place. He knows that.

The Church members who greet them seem harried and a little irritated; it seems like they're late for something. They drop all the new arrivals' bags just inside a nearby building the size of a small school gym, and they're ushered into the woods.

Will has never been one for cities. He prefers soft grass and strewn pine needles to concrete. The walk soothes him, though he remains alert. None of the newcomers chatter on the way; everyone seems to be taking this very seriously.

He sees it before anyone else: a house, a mid-sized ranch with a large deck built in front, roughly hewn and weathered. He realizes he's going to have to learn how to pay attention without looking like he's taking mental notes. That might be difficult.

No one's paying attention to him, though. As they head down the hill, the main group of about two dozen cult members -- dressed in casual, normal clothing, no ridiculous costumes -- are huddled in a large group, speaking in a soft, respectable conversational buzz. The newcomers get led to the front of the group, closest to the deck. He stays at a middle distance from the deck, not wanting to seem too eager or too hesitant.

There's a large table on the deck, and a smaller one to the side. He tries not to tense or let his imagination go.

_Don't be a cop_, he reminds himself. _Just be Will Graham._

The door of the house opens, and a man Will recognizes as Lecter comes through the door, followed by a brunette teenage girl. The girl bows her head in respect to Lecter, and drops a cloth bundle and some metal bowls on the small table before moving to the side, away from the table.

The crowd behind Will begins to stir and whisper in excitement. Will watches as Lecter moves to the top of the steps of the deck to speak to the crowd.

"We come here to welcome our newcomers," Lecter says, in the smooth, clipped tone he used on the tapes. "I understand that you've heard my words on the inherent light within the human life. It is time to widen the boundaries of your understanding."

He looks into the crowd, gaze intent. "Rebecca," he calls. "Come forward."

The whispers start again as the crowd parts for a woman who can't be over the age of thirty. Lecter extends his hand to her and leads her up to the deck.

"Meet Rebecca." Lecter holds onto her hand. "She is a valued member of our community. A true believer in the light within us. She has imagination, intelligence, and love. We can ask little more of a believer. Those of you who join us now must understand the beauty of a soul like Rebecca's."

Rebecca glances away, embarrassed, and Lecter touches her face. "Don't deny it," he says. "We all love you for what you are, and the light you hold. Don't we?"

"Yes!" a man calls out from the crowd. "We love you, Rebecca!"

"Yes!" The call goes through the crowd behind Will, and it takes everything within him not to look back at them. "Rebecca! We love you, Rebecca!"

"That is why you will honor our table today." Lecter speaks up to cut off the cries of love. "You know what you must do."

"Yes," Rebecca says softly, just loudly enough for Will and those at the front to hear. She begins to strip down to nothing, and Will glances away before making himself look back. She climbs on top of the table to lie down, still, and Lecter glances at the teenage girl standing still at the other side of the deck before he moves to the cloth bundle on the other table.

Lecter raises his voice. "We honor the light within our sister Rebecca."

"We honor your light," the crowd echoes, and Will murmurs the words.

At first, Will can't tell what Lecter is holding, something small and thin, but then he sees it: a scalpel. He steadies himself as Lecter begins to cut into the woman.

Will has seen people die. None of those experiences prepares him for watching Lecter cut pieces from the woman as she still lives. Nausea rises in him and his vision swims, but he does not move; behind him, the crowd surges forward as the new arrivals try to rush backwards, away, and the seasoned members hold them firm to watch while murmuring words of comfort. Rebecca gasps but does not scream as Lecter removes her lungs as she breathes, to place into a bowl, her heart pounding in his hands, her liver, and all the parts that Will knows one would harvest from a valued piece of livestock.

Once she is thoroughly dead and the night's dinner is taken away by the teenage girl, Lecter takes out some of the other tools in the cloth bundle. He hacks into Rebecca’s bones, pulls off sinews and viscera and pieces of skin, and removes her scalp with her hair intact.

Will wills himself not to vomit, and mostly succeeds, bile sharp in the back of his throat.

"We honor the gods," Lecter says. "We honor Rebecca's light. Her physical suffering is over. She has transcended." He lifts his chin. "My newcomers. Do you see?"

He doesn't wait for an answer. He gathers the pieces together into a cloth resting underneath the table. He moves through the crowd, past Will, and the cult members move behind him, the new arrivals dragged along, weak and helpless at what they've just seen.

There is a wooden post waiting for them. Lecter begins to assemble something with delicate, determined motions onto the white wood, with the pieces he removed from the dead Rebecca. In the darkest parts of his mind, Will understands. This is what rests on their borders: their memorials.

He realizes that behind him there are people weeping, men and women, and the wave of emotion seems to rush through the crowd. Lecter watches with an expression that is some mix of concerned and impassive as he stands back.

"The gods are pleased with your sacrifice," Lecter says, and smiles. "The gods are pleased with our newcomers."

"Gods bless the newcomers," a woman calls.

"Gods bless!" Another echo: the voices are joyful. Will's stomach twists, and he breathes through the horror, knowing he will be haunted by this until he dies.

"Praise to the Professor!" a strong male voice calls out, and the call goes through the crowd like a wave. Lecter just smiles.

"I think it is time for them to settle in and learn about the rest of what we do here," he says. "Abigail will guide you."

"Come with me." Will turns to see the teenage girl at the top of the hill, wearing a faint smile as she beckons. The other new arrivals move to her, and he follows.

The girl barely speaks but to give the tour. The other new arrivals don't seem to mind, but Will can't help but watch her.

The shock of watching a woman ripped to pieces in front of him is giving way to the need to control something, anything. He has to decide what to do next.

He stares up into the darkness as he rests on the cot provided to him. There are no clocks in the compound building. He knows he's awake for hours, until he finally drifts to sleep.

In his dreams, Rebecca limps towards him, scalped, arm hacked off at the elbow, her abdomen a wet cavity. He does not run. He knows she has every right to come for him.

* * *

Will knows Rebecca's death would be enough to have Jack come and take down Lecter. Cannibalism, consensual or not, is still murder, and it's clear they've been doing this for some time. Still, there's the possibility Lecter is even more dangerous than they think. That's Will’s purpose. That's why he has to push through this.

The shock settles in his shoulders and his neck, straining his muscles as it strains his mind. He sits in their lessons and listens silently as the deacon speaks.

"We come here to commune with the gods," Deacon Cat explains. "This place is holy. Guys, the gods are… it's our duty to bring them closer and closer to this world until they bring Paradise along with them."

"How do we do that?" Felicia asks; though she sits back, her expression is raptly interested.

"We have to rely on the Professor's work," Deacon Cat answers without hesitation. "And Abigail's prayers. Without those, we would have no chance at all."

"So no one else can do what they do?" another new arrival, Marina, asks.

"No one else can commune with the gods," Deacon Cat confirms. "This is why we honor and worship their avatars on Earth. Praise to the Professor and Abigail." She gestures at the new arrivals.

"Praise," Felicia says, her face still intent, as though she's taking detailed notes on every word, every expression. "Praise to the Professor and Abigail."

"Praise," Will echoes, and catches a smile sent to him by Deacon Cat, even as others echo the words.

They walk to a secluded room down the same hallway as the mess hall; the group is large enough and the room small enough to cramp them all together. There's a portrait of Lecter and Abigail mounted on the wall, and candles gathered on a small table.

"Those with prayers, come forward," Deacon Cat says, just loudly enough to be heard.

Marina moves through the crowd as best she can, and takes the small stick from Deacon Cat to take the flame from one candle to the next. "Breathe your light into the candle," Deacon Cat murmurs through the silence in the room, and Marina exhales before touching the flame to the wick.

Deacon Cat claps, then, and the others follow suit immediately. Will glances to Felicia, who is already moving forward.

Will lights a candle, and meets Deacon Cat's eyes. She smiles.

It's a long day. Before the sun sets, he finds himself wandering through the memorials that dot the edge of the compound, careful of the traps he can spot. There are at least ten, and he wonders how many have been taken down.

"What are you looking for?"

He turns quickly at the sound of the girl's voice. Abigail stands there, gaze steady, and offers a very thin, careful smile. It's strange to realize he nominally offered a prayer to this girl's image, and here she is, speaking to him like a normal person.

"Nothing." He turns back to the memorial. "Answers, maybe." A vague answer, one she can spin to something innocuous in her own head, maybe under the cultist's search for meaning.

"The ritual, the release of light, is an answer," she says after a pause.

"To what question?" Will asks, still not looking her way.

"Hannibal says it's the answer to the meaning of life. That we pull back the veil of life and death when we see the honorable death of one of the faithful." She seems to be reciting this, and he can't tell if it's more rote than devout.

"I think I saw something," he says, and glances back at her. "I expected people to leave when they saw the ritual."

"No one leaves," Abigail says. Her smile doesn't reach her eyes completely. "They see the truth."

_They know that Lecter is ready to kill them if they try, probably,_ Will thinks.

"Tell me the truth, Abigail," he says, trying to hold her gaze.

She doesn't back down. "You listened to the tapes."

"We all have an inherent light inside us," he parrots.

"What some call a soul," she answers. "We free the inherent light of the faithful from physical suffering and transcend in the moment." She pauses. "Hannibal's words. But I've heard them a lot."

Will pauses. "Are you his daughter?" he asks directly.

Abigail's smile falters. "My parents are gone," she says. "Hannibal took me in. I've been here for three years."

"How old are you?" He asks it gently, at least, a little concerned.

"Seventeen." She shifts. "This is my home." It's a half-defensive response.

"And mine," Will says. He's not stupid. "I'm glad you found a place."

"I'm glad you're here." Abigail almost seems to mean it. "You know you can always come to us."

"I guess I'm surprised," he admits. "You're sacrosanct, yet you're here talking to me." Maybe he can draw her out. Maybe she's the key to it all. She stands right beside Lecter, all the time, a trusted ward. "If it's not… sacrilege of some kind, I'd like to talk to you."

"It's not sacrilege." Her gaze softens as she looks at him. "Tell me why you're here, Will."

He has to answer her. She's important. What would he say if he meant to be here? What does he have to run from, into the arms of a cult?

"I'm frightened," Will says, and averts his gaze. "All the time."

"Are you frightened now?" she asks, tone unreadable.

It feels like a dangerous question, a test. He exhales. "Not of you," he answers finally.

Abigail moves towards him, and stops an arm's length away. "I'm here to protect everyone," she says softly. "I know I'm seventeen. But I'm here to protect you."

He leaps to a conclusion, but that's what he does. "From what?" he asks, having a good idea of the answer she'll likely refuse to give.

"The worst-case scenario." She glances back. "You should head back. I have to go to the house."

"Abigail," Will starts, but she shakes her head and walks away. He doesn't chase her down. He heads back. It's time for the circle of trust, where secrets are spilled, and his lies are well-prepared.

* * *

** _Week 3._ **

Three weeks have passed, and he hasn't had a chance to speak to Jack without blowing his cover completely. It took a month for Etheridge to be ruined by Lecter. It feels like a horrible clock is ticking behind his eyes.

"Praise to Abigail," Will murmurs anyway, dropped to a knee before the portrait. Deacon Greg helps him up once the candle is lit.

"It's time you all learn how to transcend," Deacon Greg says, a faint smile on his face. "Come."

The new arrivals follow. Will has profiles on all of them in his head. Marina is an insecure wreck who aches for an authority figure to give her simple answers. Peter experiences delusions and has untreated schizoid or schizophrenia. Rachel is in obsessive love with Lecter. Bill is a divorcee who lost his kids, likely due to some bad behaviors, and has given every bit of money he has to Lecter. A few are lost causes. All worry him.  
Deacon Greg passes each of them a knife.

"Blood is the holy sacrament," he says, a note of joy in his voice. "You will taste true joy today."

Will cuts into Rachel's arm; they watch the blood blossom along the wound. Deacon Greg gestures for Will to go on, to take it further, and he barely hesitates before pressing his mouth to the wound to taste Rachel’s blood.

"We offer this sacrifice to the Professor and Abigail, and ask for their intercession to the gods," Deacon Greg says, a steady rhythm to his words. "Next."

The ritual goes on. The blood is coppery and sharp in Will's mouth.

* * *

** _Week 4._ **

It's been a month. It's time for another sacrificial ritual.

Tomorrow is the first day he would even ostensibly be able to contact Jack, the grocery run, the few new recruits coming on the bus. But it's too early. He's ingratiated himself as best as he can, and they trust him. It's a matter of time before he finds Lecter's “wrath”. He can't go to Jack without what he came here to find.

He sits among the memorials as the sun sets. They don't seem to mind that he goes off on his own, as long as he discusses dogma with them and speaks of the virtues of the Professor and Abigail once he's back. The important thing is that Abigail knows this is his place, that she knows where to find him.

He hears the sound of footsteps behind him, and he doesn't turn, waiting for her to speak and announce herself.

"Hello, Will."

Will glances back, genuinely surprised to see Lecter standing there, a mild expression on his face and a casual set to his shoulders. He stands and brushes off his jeans, unsure of what deference he needs to portray, but Lecter brushes off his uncertainty with a gesture.

"I would like you to come with me. Do you have a moment?" Lecter asks, all manners.

Will nods, and Lecter begins to lead the way. Within a thousand feet or so it's clear they're headed to the house. Despite all his efforts, he finds himself becoming nervous. _Lecter could suspect._ Somehow.

There's nothing he can do but follow.

Lecter holds the door open for him, and Will slips inside. The interior of the house is a stark contrast to the rustic exterior: beautiful carved accents, pieces of art on the walls, a beautiful piece of masonry for a fireplace. He stops, but Lecter breezes past him and gestures for Will to join him for a seat on plush furniture in the main room.

"I understand you've been speaking to Abigail," Lecter starts.

"Yes." Will begins to plan his escape. It may not be necessary, but it can't hurt to have in mind. He's not far from the door.

"She is a sacrament come to life," Lecter says, gaze intent upon him. "Not many can connect with her, being what she is." He clasps his hands in his lap. "She is lonely. I've known this for some time."

"She came to me," Will says quietly, after a pause.

"So many keep their distance from her out of respect for what she is," Lecter clarifies. "You didn't hesitate to befriend her."

Will shakes his head. "All I did was answer her questions."

"She was drawn to you," Lecter insists. "She saw something in you. She saw the truth in you."

He can't tell if this is good news or bad news. "What did she see in me?"

"A beacon." Lecter smiles faintly. "A shining light." 

The terminology startles him. Beacon is a term commonly used for deacons, who preach to the cult and bring the names of the sacrifices for approval by Lecter. "Oh?" he decides on.

Lecter rises and goes to the hearth; he takes a knife that rests along the edge of a picture frame above it, and brings it over to Will. "I mean to anoint you," he says. "If Abigail has seen your light… I trust her. Will you accept this rite?"

This is almost too easy. "I've only been here a month." 

"You would begin slowly," Lecter assures him, "with all the help our leadership can offer you. But there is something beautiful within you, Will."

It'll be simple. He knows their babble. He can make his way to the top of this pyramid of insanity. "Yes," Will says, and breathes out slowly. "Please."

Lecter nods, then presses the knife to two of his fingertips, blood welling from a deep cut there. He leans over and draws his bleeding fingertips across Will's forehead. "You will wear this as a sign," he directs. "For two days. Do you understand?"

"Yes." Will looks into Lecter's face. It's impossible to read the truth from it.

Could it be this simple?

"Go rest," Lecter suggests. "You will find tomorrow brings more work than you're used to in this place."

"Work doesn't bother me, Professor," he assures Lecter.

"Good." Lecter stands, and Will follows as he's escorted from the house. "I'll see you soon," he promises Will.

Will just nods, and withdraws to the central building. When Rachel sees him, she stares at him, and he realizes only after an awkward pause what she's seeing. "Yes," he says.

"Praise," Rachel says, and a truly joyful smile crosses her face. "Oh, gods bless you, Deacon Will."

His uncertainty doesn't cross his face. He accepts the hug she offers. He thinks about Jack again, awaiting news, not knowing to what depths Will is sinking just to get one horrible piece of information.

The sacrifice is soon. Will may be complicit in the next murder. He has to make all of this worth it.

* * *

Deacon Cat wakes him the next day.

"It's time," she says. "Get ready, we'll see you at the chapel."

"Yes," Will says, restraining a sigh, and rolls off the cot to get changed into his now worn clothing.

He could go on the bus, if he was just another cultist. Unfortunately, as a deacon, he's watched. He has a lot to do, a lot to learn. Maybe it's time to inform Jack of his progress, but there's no time to sneak away.

This is Lecter's design. Maybe. Or maybe it's paranoia. 

But if Lecter was stupid, the Church of Inherent Light wouldn't have lasted this long, and bringing Will to the attention of the congregation is the best way to have all the eyes of Inherent Light upon him, if he's law enforcement who means to sneak out and spread the word about his group. 

On the other hand, Lecter seems to trust Abigail implicitly, as he'd said. Unless Abigail doubts Will, Lecter may not either. It's impossible to tell if Abigail really does trust him, or if this is all some sort of sick game.

Contacting Jack will have to wait, though the tension feels as though it threatens to kill him.

There's another ceremony. Peter weeps with joy as he surrenders himself onto the table. There's screaming this time, though Peter originally tries to contain it. Will watches, not as numb as he'd like, not with the weight of responsibility crunching his shoulders inward.

When he closes his eyes, he sees Rebecca up the hillside, bathed in light, her chest and stomach gaping open with the inside in shadows. She beckons Peter to her, and he rises, blood dripping down his pale, graying legs as he goes to her, a walk of dedication.

He opens his eyes, and a tear spills down his cheek.

"Deacon."

Felicia is behind him. He turns his head and wipes his face. She shakes her head. He locks eyes with her, and she smiles faintly, conspiratorially. He feels seen, and that's probably not a good thing.

"Later," Will says, and turns away.

Lecter assembles the memorial, and Will just stares as he arranges flesh and bones, beautifully tying them with silk rope. It's different than the first time. The nausea simmers in his stomach but doesn't rise. Darkness has always chased him, but now it helps him, breaking something deep within him out of necessity; it forces him to be fine with this, to create a part of him that will allow him to get closer, to win.

He doesn't feel the joy the deep cultists feel. He feels next to nothing, right on the edge of calm and panic, and wonders if he will ever come back from that point.

Perhaps a split isn't the worst thing.

After the memorial, they withdraw to dinner. Will knows that Peter is on the table for Lecter and Abigail, maybe a very trusted deacon or two. The others eat from normal groceries. The two dozen or so of the congregation can't be fed on sacrifices alone.

Rachel speaks up first as Will's group of arrivals comes together at the table. "Peter was beautiful. Don't you think?"

"I felt something," Felicia says, and sighs. "There's something I don't understand."

"What?" Bill asks, interested. "Will's a deacon, you could ask him."

"Well, I just don't get what's going on with Abigail," Felicia says. She seems to be studiously not looking at Will, as he watches her as casually as he can. "She's important, but we don't see her much, and I don't know how she can help us transcend if she's hidden in the house."

"One day she'll save us." Will can echo what Deacon Cat told him. That's the easy part. "She's a sacrament come to life. Her purpose will become clear soon enough."

"You know her," Felicia says; now she's looking at Will. "Don't you?"

"I don't think anyone knows her," Will says, and offers a wry smile. "Except maybe the Professor."

"Who can know a sacrament?" Rachel points out. "Well, thank you, Deacon Will."

"Thank you," Bill murmurs, and Felicia repeats it, her gaze flicking away.

After, in the midst of the memorials, Will waits for whoever comes for him.

"Deacon Will," Felicia says from behind him.

It's not really a surprise. He glances back, his expression mild. "Felicia. Hello."

"I think we need to talk," she says, and lopes over to him to take a seat nearby.

"I'm listening," Will decides on.

"I think," she says, eyes trained on his face, "that you aren't what you claim to be."

"What do you mean?" he asks, expression not changing.

Felicia seems to be weighing something in her mind. "I believe that you came here for a purpose."

"Didn't we all?" he returns.

"Will." She sighs. "Are you going to make me say it?"

He makes a faintly amused sound. "Considering that I don't know what you're talking about, yeah, I think so."

Felicia pauses. "Do you believe?" she asks directly.

"Of course I do." It's a reflexive answer: both true and not true at the same time, true for that newly segregated part of his mind that runs him on this property and can live with what's happening, untrue for every screaming part of him who is forced to live with the dreams. "Do you?"

She smiles. It doesn't reach her eyes, which still search him for something. He thinks he's managed it, but she speaks again. "You're not like the others, Will."

"I'm not like anyone," Will says honestly.

"I think we're searching for the same thing," she answers. "So… talk to me when you're ready."

He inclines his head in a nod, and she withdraws without another word, leaving him to think about the implications.

Was she sent by Lecter to sniff him out? Is she engaged against Inherent Light as well? It's impossible to know, and it feels just as impossible to know what to do next.

He starts by heading back to the compound and going to sleep. Peter and Rebecca dance a waltz in his dreams, her single arm clasped around his neck, trailing blood and rotted flesh as they go.

* * *

** _Week 5._ **

Lecter invites him to the dinner table in the house, which is a surprise, but not an unwelcome one. It's impossible to know if they're eating meat harvested from a human being, and it's not something Will can put easily from his mind. 

The first bite is a real struggle, as is the second, until that awful split in his mind works for him and he goes numb, normal, casual about it all. _Just do it, Will. They went willingly._

He focuses on talking to Abigail, who seems to be happy that he's there, though whether or not that's a front is going to be a question until the end of all this.

"It's an honor to be here." It's the sort of thing Will has to say. He's at a table eating with the two people the group considers to be avatars of the divine. If he were to say anything less, it would mean disrespect.

"We're happy to have you," Lecter assures him.

Abigail nods; she's watching him, he knows that, and he doesn't react to the attention. "Hannibal," she says suddenly. "Can I?"

"Of course," Lecter says, idly cutting into the liver on his plate.

Will raises his eyebrows at Abigail, and she balks, but he gestures with his fork for her to go on. "I just," Abigail starts, and exhales. "I know the next bus is coming in a few weeks. And you could go."

"Yes," Will agrees.

"I think we need you here," she says, and breathes out slowly, as though it's an effort to get this out. "If you have to go, you'll come back, right?"

He doesn't visibly react. She's difficult to read. "What makes you think I'll be leaving?"

"Deacon Cat says you mentioned you had family to reach out to." She glances away from him, back to her plate, to push the vegetables around the delicate pattern on it. "Just remember that we need you here."

"Abigail." Will takes a breath. "I came here for a reason. I'm not ready to go yet."

"She sees something in you," Lecter speaks up, and his expression is unreadable when Will looks to him. "In such a short time, you have proven yourself more than I could have expected."

"I'm grateful for the opportunity," Will says, and steels himself before taking another bite. He can do this without spitting it out, without vomiting. "I came here as… no one."

"No," Abigail says, tone short. "You've always been someone. It's just that there was something in the way."

"Fear," Lecter says, "can keep people from becoming who they're meant to be."

Their words are more often laden with portent, and it's impossible to know for sure if that's what they're trying to get across. Will murmurs something along the tune of gratitude, and they discuss the upcoming marriage of two of the congregation until dinner is finished.

"Abigail, if you would take the dishes and excuse us." Lecter sends her a half-smile as she does as she's told, and waits until she's out of the room to turn to Will. "Will, I understand you came in the same group as our Felicia."

"Yes." Will keeps his gaze and breathing steady.

"Do you know her well?" Lecter persists.

"Not as well as some do." He has his doubts anyone really knows Felicia. She may have fooled the others, but she's got two faces, and he hasn't figured out why yet. "Why?"

"I want you to get close to her." Lecter is watching him for something, some reaction, but Will doesn't give him one. "I want to know if she's hiding something, Will."

"Do you think she has ulterior motives?" Will asks outright.

"I think there is reason to doubt her sincerity," Lecter answers, and sits back. "But perhaps I am being paranoid. I trust you to do this and bring what you learn back to me."

"Of course," Will says without hesitation. "When I know, you'll know."

Lecter moves his hand and rests it on top of Will's, his thumb gently brushing the top of Will's hand. "Thank you," he says, voice soft.

Will looks at Lecter's hand on top of his, then back to Lecter's face. His expression is nearly soft, but still guarded in his mild way. It's all in his eyes. Will knows he can't trust a thing in this place, but he also knows an opening in this game when he sees one.

"Anytime, Professor."

Lecter withdraws his hand and stands, and Will stands to be led to the door and excused. He wishes he could see Abigail before he leaves, but she doesn't return before the door closes behind him.

It's time to speak to Felicia.

* * *

All it takes is a look across the meal table a day later, and a gesture with his head. Felicia gives him a slight nod, and he knows she's understood. He makes it to the memorials first, but it's only about five minutes until Felicia appears behind him.

"Are you ready to talk?" she asks.

"Yes," Will says, cautious still. "Why don't you start?"

Felicia laughs. It's not a happy sound. "I want to know why you're here."

"I have my reasons," he answers, and glances away. "Some in the congregation aren't sure about you, Felicia."

"Paranoia and gossip," she says, with vague amusement. "Perfectly natural in groups like this."

Will gets it, now. Maybe she isn't this way with the others, but someone this duplicitous can't cover her tracks all the time, and sometimes covering your tracks is enough to prove there were tracks in the first place. "Be honest with me."

"Fine," Felicia says, and flashes a smile without a hint of positive emotion. "I think you're a cop."

His eyebrows shoot up. "Wow," comes out of his mouth.

"My name isn't Felicia," she goes on, blithe. "It's Freddie Lounds. I'm a journalist."

It's time for one of those split second decisions again. "You're here to expose this place."

"Yes." Felicia -- no, Freddie -- just looks at him for a moment. "And you? Will you offer me to the Professor, praise be, as a traitor? Have me butchered and put on his dinner table?"

Fine. Will's ready for this. "Do you have evidence?"

"I have tape," Freddie confirms. "Pictures."

There's no way this is a trap. Maybe. He's fairly confident. "Isn't that enough to go on?" he returns. "Don't you have a story?"

"There's more to it." She raises her eyebrows, now. "Don't you think?"

"More to it than cannibalism?" Will says, tone fatally dry.

"Yes," Freddie says, unruffled. "There's a reason this place hasn't been raided yet. I'm going to find it."

He eyes her. "He sent me to look into you. You're not doing as great a job as you think you are."

"And I can see straight through you, Will," she fires back. "Maybe he can, too."

"Maybe, but I'm closer to what I came here to do than you are." She's irritating. But she could be useful. "If I cover for you, will you help me?"

"Only if we make an agreement." She offers her hand to him. "We share what we learn."

There's no point hiding it anymore. "This is an investigation."

"And you're planning to use my evidence. I think we need each other right now, Deacon."

He looks at the nearest memorial, at the graying flesh and bleached bone, then back to her still-outstretched hand. He takes it and shakes it; somehow, the whole thing makes him feel dirtier than when he started.

"When I learn something, you'll know," Will says, meeting her gaze.

"Same," Freddie says easily. "So. Let's hope no one overheard all that."

"They know to leave me alone." He glances away again.

"Want to have a tryst to excuse running off together?"

His gaze snaps back to her. "What?"

"Just an idea." She's smiling that ridiculous fake smile of hers again. "I'll see you later, Will."

"Yeah," he says, tone a little curt, and turns away.

He thinks he knows what he has to do, to deflect attention enough to get out to speak to Jack, but it may take time. Everything in this place seems to take time, measured moves of the pieces across the board, trying to anticipate each possible response.

It's exhausting. Maybe this next move will give him enough room to breathe.

* * *

** _Week 6._ **

By now, Will is giving short lectures to the new arrivals, under the guidance of Deacon Cat. Everything is backwards and wrong. He knows Abigail and Lecter are just humans with ulterior motives, who want to feed on people's money and livelihoods and sometimes their organs, but it's easy enough to start a calm ramble about sacraments and holiness and light.

It works. It all works, maybe too well. Lecter buys the story that “Felicia” is having doubts and Will means to counsel her. It's a good excuse to pull her aside at the memorials when there's news. Not that there's news yet. Everything is slow-going. He can't believe it's been six weeks and all he's managed to do is carve out a place without a sign of progress on what's going on underneath.

It's going to take a lot more than being a deacon, but he has a lever. He has Abigail's interest.

Will makes his way to the house. He's uninvited, and Lecter seems to value politeness, but it's worth a try. He knocks and waits, mentally preparing himself for whatever games may come.

Lecter answers the door, and barely reacts. "Will," he greets him. "Come in."

"Thank you," Will says instantly, and slips past Lecter. "I'm sorry to come uninvited, but I felt drawn to come here." Stupid religious babble will take him far here.

"I see." Lecter gestures for him to sit on one of the plush pieces of furniture. Will takes a seat in a chair and tries to relax, and Lecter speaks once he's sat as well. "Tell me what you are feeling, Will."

"I feel." He pauses. All lies should have a grain of truth. "I feel lost."

"Even here?" Lecter asks. "Even now, in this place that welcomes you?"

"Sometimes." Will doesn't look at him. This could veer uncomfortably close to a therapy session if he's not careful. "I always find myself lost eventually."

"You lose yourself in your own head," Lecter says mildly. "Your thoughts overwhelm you. What you think, what you see when you close your eyes."

It's too on point. He doesn't like it. "What do you mean?"

Lecter's expression doesn't change at all, but the atmosphere in the room does, to something that pricks at Will's paranoia. "Do you feel guilty for what we do here, Will?" he asks.

"I know that you do what you have to do," Will answers, after the briefest pause.

"I saw in you someone who has seen blood," Lecter says, "who has transcended, even before he knew what it meant. Was I incorrect?"

This is as good as an accusation of being a cop, isn't it? "I've seen death," Will says, a little short. "I didn't understand what it meant, then."

"Some death is meaningless," Lecter allows. "I think you are haunted by those deaths, and the darkness that came in their wake." He watches Will, who says nothing. "What happens here is not the same as the work of a gunman in an alleyway or a madman with a design to hurt. You see why I do what I do. What I have built here."

Will meets Lecter's gaze. "I understand," he says. "How did you come to this, Professor?"

Lecter doesn't look away. "I knew in my heart that this was something I had to build. Not only for myself, but for Abigail."

He measures his next response. "Because she's a living sacrament."

"Yes. And she is very important to me." Lecter continues to watch him even as Will breaks eye contact again. "Do you have doubts?"

"Isn't that only natural?" Will says. "Even deacons must have their moments of doubt."

"Even I have my moments of doubt," Lecter returns. "Doubt is a part of life. But we must come back to that which we have committed ourselves, and seek connection with those who understand us." He pauses, but not long enough for Will to come up with a reply. "Do you feel understood?"

"Sometimes." Usually when Will feels understood it means he's got a case, and nothing more than that.

"Do you feel that Abigail understands you?" Lecter persists.

Will hesitates. "I think we have a connection," he says.

Lecter nods, then. "There is nothing wrong in admitting that. I am glad that Abigail has found you."

He has to hand it to Lecter, he's very skilled at building verbal traps that look very kind and conscientious. "She's special. She said she's been here for three years," he prompts Lecter.

"You wish to know more." Lecter considers that. "She lost her family. I adopted her. I wanted to give her a home, a life. She is very special to me."

"You say she's a sacrament," Will presses. "What does that mean?"

"She is the most powerful person in this group," Lecter says, with a tinge of 'this should be obvious' to it. "She is the center of it all."

Lecter's elevated her to this status to protect her. From what? 

"I know she's special," Will says. "I feel… less doubt when I reach out through her."

"Good." Lecter nods. "Has the fear subsided, Will?"

Will selects his truth. "Yes." The fear has shattered his mind, splintering him into two pieces, one which can withstand this. The fear has subsided when he seeks refuge in his deep denial, in his conviction that this will all be worthwhile.

"Excellent." Lecter barely smiles. "Let me bring Abigail to you. I think she will want to speak to you."

"Yes," Will says, not too quickly, and breathes out as Lecter stands to go deeper into the house to find the girl.

Abigail smiles as she sees him. They don't discuss much, but she seems happy. Will offers a smile of his own, though he feels an unseen enemy closing in around him.

* * *

** _Week 7._ **

When Will goes out to the memorials one day, someone is already there. He stops.

"It's not time yet," Abigail says softly to Lecter.

"They will come," Lecter says, and takes her hand. "You must accept your duty."

"You really think they're coming?" she asks.

Will has to wonder if they've seen him already and this is all theatre for his benefit. What a game he plays. He waits where he stands, in the open, though they seem focused on each other at the moment.

"I am certain." Lecter pauses. "You would have me find someone else."

Abigail seems to be choosing her words carefully, from the look Will can see on her face. "I don't think it's time."

"I see," Lecter says, and muses on that.

Will takes the opportunity to walk towards them in the pause, and raises a hand in greeting before slipping past them, giving them the chance to speak to him or not.

"Hello, Will," Lecter speaks up. "I think it is a sign that you have come to us now. Abigail?"

Abigail is rigid when Will looks back. "Hannibal," she starts.

"Don't worry," Lecter assures her. "I agree. It is not time." He releases her hand. "Will. You will come with me."

Will knows he must. He has to figure out what's going on, what Hannibal intends to do to Abigail that makes her so afraid. _What is this sacrament?_

Lecter brings him to the house. Will slips inside, and sticks his hands in his pockets, not purposely looking uncomfortable, but supposing that uncertainty plays into the game. Lecter catches Will's gaze and turns away, enough to bring across that he's meant to follow. They go to the back of the house to what is clearly the master bedroom, a casually lavishly decorated affair.

Lecter closes the door behind him. Will realizes there's no easy escape. He has to get this right, or he's dead. 

"This is very important," Lecter says, and brushes a hand against Will's cheek. "You must do as I say. You must trust me."

"Yes," Will says again. Lecter moves close to him and touches his face before drawing him in for a kiss. Will’s eyes close as Lecter kisses him, insistent; they flutter open as Lecter tugs at the sweater Will wears and the shirt beneath. He submits, helps Lecter pull them over his head, and doesn't have a chance to feel insecure in the moment.

"Rest back on the bed," Lecter says softly, and Will shifts back on the bed, watching Lecter as he opens the bedside drawer and pulls out a knife with an ornate handle. It's only natural to be afraid, but he reasons that Lecter wouldn't murder Will on his bed, on his sleek duvet. He's too fastidious for that.

Lecter leans over Will and strokes a hand over his chest. The part of Will that he's sequestered to play this role is fascinated at the gentle touch, while the relatively sane Will watches with mounting horror as Lecter just as gently presses the knife against his chest to draw blood.

"This is our sacrament," Lecter murmurs. "This will buy us some time." He kisses Will's neck, down to his chest, to the shallow wound, and licks the blood away, nicking him with yet another wound as he does.

Will's breaths come shallow as Lecter goes over and over, until he feels something electric from his shoulders and collarbone to his chest and his stomach, and his cock betrays him, twitching up as Lecter's mouth lingers just shy of his bellybutton.

"As I thought," Lecter says, barely audible, and his gaze goes up to Will's face, his eyes soft. "Let us continue."

"What -- " But Lecter is undoing his pants, and he gives in, shifts to allow him to pull them down. Will has always been extremely awkward in sexual situations, and this might count extra in a situation of trying to woo a psychopath to trust or more, and he looks down at his half-hard cock almost apologetically before Lecter wraps his hand around it and begins to easily work it.

"Oh, god." Will hasn't had sex in literal years, and this is distractingly nice. Then Lecter's free hand takes up the knife and guides the flat of it against Will's neck, the edge just barely pressed against his skin. His breaths quicken again. Maybe he's misjudged everything.

"Trust me," Lecter says, that gentle authority in his voice, and Will tries to calm his breaths, his heartbeat. It's _confusing_. He knows Lecter could cut his throat, but he's jerking Will's cock so firmly and the blade is cool against his skin, the edge so tantalizingly close -- 

Lecter moves; the blade continues to brush against Will's throat, but now he's wrapping his mouth around Will's cock. Will groans immediately at the contact of Lecter's tongue against the head and shaft. "Oh god," he manages as Lecter begins to suck his cock, expression mild as he bobs his head to take Will fully into his mouth.

Will quivers, and the knife creeps up his throat, reminding him with just a touch more pressure; his hips jerk his cock harder into Lecter's mouth, and Lecter makes an approving sound around his cock. He doesn't hesitate to rock into Lecter’s mouth harder again, hyper-aware of the knife at his throat and not caring, until he crashes hard into an orgasm and comes into Lecter's mouth.

Lecter moves the knife away, and draws a handkerchief from his pocket to wipe his mouth. He looks to Will. "How do you feel?" he asks.

Will doesn't know. Lecter trusted him in a ritual, or used him in one; it's impossible to tell. But Lecter is there, calm, measured, while he lies there wrecked and bloody. "Thank you for the honor," he murmurs, and tries to push himself up.

"Do you want more?" Lecter asks, before he can move.

Yeah, he has at least ten cuts now. Shallow, but this is going to be a bitch. "What?" Will asks, distracted.

"I am asking if you want to have sex, Will."

For some reason, this is unexpected. Maybe it shouldn't be. "Yeah," he decides. The plan is to disarm him enough to deflect suspicion. If he trusts Will enough to take him as a sexual partner… maybe. 

Lecter nods, and moves to stand, to shed his clothes. Will takes a hint and does the same. Lecter pins him to the bed as soon as he returns to it, and Will can feel Lecter's cock hard against his thigh.

"Very good," Lecter murmurs, and snatches up the lube he apparently took out of the same drawer. He doesn't bother with much by way of preparation, and soon he's rocking his cock carefully into Will's ass.

"More," Will breathes. Lecter's cock is just right, and right now, he wants it.

A satisfied look crosses Lecter's face, and he starts to fuck Will like he means it.

Will closes his eyes and lets the ecstasy roll through him. The cuts tingle, ache, but he doesn't care. He can allow that part of himself that transcends with the madness, the part that creeps into his mind more often than it ever should, the part he desperately hopes will not follow him out of this place, to enjoy this moment.

* * *

** _Week 8._ **

Tomorrow, the bus leaves to drop off the mail from the congregation and pick up any new recruits. Will knows this won't be easy. Lecter has made escape a difficult prospect, and the more Will thinks about it the cleverer the trap seems.

He sits among the memorials again, musing on his next actions, the contact he has to make with Jack, what he can even begin to say. It's all too incriminating. In his mind, he's made all the right choices, but people have died in front of him and he's done nothing. Also, he's probably eaten human flesh. None of this looks good.

The clock still ticks forward in his head, the heavy weight of a pendulum swinging. _Eight weeks._

"You shouldn't go."

He turns slightly to see Abigail behind him. "Come on," he says instead of answering, gesturing with his head for her to join him.

Abigail takes a seat next to him, and falls silent. "You need him to trust you," she says. "If you leave, he won't trust you."

"I have a responsibility on the outside." Will looks at her. "It's out of my hands."

"Will, you're not listening to me." Her mouth presses in a firm line. "You need to stay."

He takes that in, then looks at her more closely. "You want me to stay."

"I need you to stay," Abigail says, and exhales sharply. "We all need you to stay."

Is she afraid he won't come back and she'll lose companionship? Does she view him as someone who can save her from Lecter? Is she manipulating him to draw him further in because she knows he's law enforcement? It's impossible to know. 

"I'll come back," he tries, a tactic, something to wheedle more truth out of her.

"Will -- " She cuts herself off shortly, and glances away in frustration.

"If I stay." Will watches her. "What would you have me do?"

"Hannibal and I need you." She worries a leaf in her hands. "Can you stay?"

Jack is probably losing his mind at the lack of contact so far. Still, Will's making headway with the “sacrament” that is Abigail, apparently, the person Lecter describes as the center of it all. He makes a quick decision, and touches her hand where it rests on her knee.

"If you need me," he says firmly, "for anything at all, Abigail, I'm here."

Abigail's eyes flicker to his face, then she nods, not looking as relieved as he might have expected. She twines her fingers with his, and they sit in a comfortable silence for a moment.

She breaks the silence a good few minutes into their rest among the memorials. "The gods don't answer me."

"When you pray?" Will asks, though it's a stupid question. "I- I know the feeling."

"I just want answers." She stares straight ahead.

Every word spoken here is laden with double, triple meanings. Will is lucky that he can untangle them. "We can find them together."

Abigail nods quickly. "Just stay with me," she says.

Will flashes a brief smile, and puts a little pressure on their linked hands, a small squeeze of solidarity and affection.

* * *

A woman named Laura dies on the sacrificial table, anointed with blood into Will's dreams and painted in dark blood red, organ-shaded pink, and corpse-gray behind his eyelids. Will didn't know her well, but she seemed troubled every time they spoke in the circle. He's invited by Abigail to dinner at the house shortly after, and he spends the intervening time bracing himself for cannibalism yet again.

He knows Lecter is hiding more than the habit of eating people. It's just a matter of time before he can figure out if Abigail will help him find what he came here to find.

Dinner is a gentle, polite affair. Will catches Lecter's gaze and his outstretched hand in easy consent, and Lecter leads him off to the bedroom.

"We are still in grave danger," Lecter says, as he draws the knife from the drawer to face Will, marked and naked, on the bed. "One day, they will come for us."

"I know," Will says, and means it.

He wonders if the knife marks will stay with him, if Lecter has marked him permanently, an absent thought before Lecter grinds his stiff cock against Will's. It doesn't take much for Will to switch mental gears and let the pleasure roll over him, as though he wants this the way Deacon Will should want it. He rocks his cock up against Lecter's and shares fierce kisses with him, taking in Lecter's sharp breaths and brief sounds of satisfaction until Lecter pins him down.

"Now," he murmurs. "I will have you."

"Yes," Will answers without hesitation.

Sex with Lecter is so contrary to what it would seem to be; it's not polite, it's a literal knife's edge and the ache of wounds and heavy thrusts that nearly make Will forget who he is and what he's doing. He digs his fingernails into Lecter's shoulders and moans despite himself.

After, Lecter casually cleans himself up. "You will join us on Friday," he says to Will.

"Of course." Will buttons his shirt, and wonders if he's caught the man, or if Lecter thinks he's caught him. Games within games.

"When it comes," Lecter says, gaze intent at the window as he dresses, "Will, I trust that you will be with me."

He hadn't expected that. "I'm with you," he says softly. "You know that."

Lecter inclines his head in a nod. Will says a quick goodbye to Abigail, his mind threatening to race before he tamps it down. _Of course he knows._

When he withdraws to his quiet place among the memorials -- soon these will be torn down, and he'll have to move to the other cluster -- it's mere minutes before he's interrupted.

"Anything new?" Freddie says from behind him.

"I'm getting there," Will says, not turning around.

"They're hiding something behind a door in the compound building," she says, a little testy. "I don't know who has the key. Probably just Lecter."

"That's probably it," he says mildly.

"Are you going to get that key?" she persists.

"I'll work on it." He doesn't like her, but he needs her, and that's irritating. "It's not as easy as just asking."

Freddie doesn't seem ready to accept that answer. "What's the plan?"

"I'm getting closer to them," Will says pointedly.

"Rumors say you and Lecter are pretty close," she says blithely.

"They're not wrong." He's not ashamed of what he's done, or, at least, he'll only be ashamed in front of Jack, not this opportunist. "I'm doing what needs doing."

"Right." She shrugs at him. "So, keep working, I guess. I'll keep looking."

"Thanks," Will says, and raises his eyebrows at her.

"Will." Freddie looks weary. "I worry that you're in too deep."

"My approach is different than yours," he says, "and surprisingly less dangerous."

"Is it, now?" She scoffs. "Hopping into bed with Lecter isn't getting too close?"

Will flinches before he can help it; she doesn't know, she can't, but it hits too close to home. "They're beginning to trust me," he defends.

"Are you sure about that? Or are they playing you?" she fires back, voice still soft to match his. "I worry about you, Will; even if we don't always get along, we need to work together on this."

"I think if I get to Abigail," Will says steadily, "I'll get that key."

"And how will you get to her?" Freddie retorts.

"Insinuation," he says. "Can you trust me?"

"I can try," she says, and sighs. "Don't get yourself killed. The last one was drugged and eaten."

He'd figured as much, but at least now he knows what happened to Etheridge. "I won't," he promises.

"Yeah." She eyes him. "Get the key, Will. I'm trusting you."

"I've got it." He has to, or all of this has been for nothing, all the guilt that plagues him when he tries to sleep, and the terrible rift in his head that has decided this place is home.

Freddie nods to him and turns away. He shakes his head and tries not to let his mind drift. He can't let the fear, the guilt, win out. He's so close.

* * *

** _Week 10._ **

Will knows the pathway to what he needs, and it's through Abigail.

Lecter is ministering to one of the other deacons (Deacon Cat was visibly thrilled at the prospect this morning), so Will makes his way to the house, where Abigail spends most of her time withdrawn from the rest of the congregation. He knocks on the door and waits, assuring himself inwardly that even these small steps are going to take him to the other side of that compound door.

Abigail opens the door and smiles. "Hey," she says. "Come in? Hannibal's not here."

"I know," Will says, "I, I came here to see you." He offers a faint smile. "Busy?"

"No," she promises, and guides him inside. "I guess it's nicer in here than out by the memorials anyway."

"Yeah." He has to admit, it's getting cold out there. "I just… felt like I had to come see you."

She takes a seat in the front room, gesturing for him to join her. "I like seeing you," she offers. "Um, Hannibal teases me. Says you're my favorite." She looks embarrassed.

Will laughs briefly. "Am I?"

"Maybe." She fiddles with her sleeves. "I don't have a lot of people I talk to."

"People are surprised you talk to me," he concedes. "Why do you talk to me?"

"Because you're different." Abigail is intently studying the frayed cuff of her shirtsleeve. "You're more like me."

"I guess that's a good thing." He keeps watching her. "I'll come over here more often, if you want."

"With the sacrament," she says, hesitant. "You proved… I feel like you want what's best for us all. That's true, right?"

Will senses her weakness. "Completely," he says. "Whatever I have to do for the congregation, for everyone."

"Will," she starts, then cuts herself off.

He reaches across the few inches between them and touches her hand; she accepts it, holds onto it, and breathes slowly. "I'm here," he says.

Abigail looks down at their hands, and her grip tightens. "Three years ago," she says, "my father should have been arrested for murdering and eating girls who looked like me." She keeps her gaze on their hands. "He murdered my mother. Tried to murder me. Hannibal was there." She breathes out. "He saved me. Took me away."

"How did he know?" Will asks softly.

"He knew what my father was, because he was the same. I don't know." She meets his gaze then. "I would be dead if he hadn't shown up."

It's perfect: a cult built by a cannibal surrounding a girl who is already inured to eating people, to protect her from the outside world. This is Lecter's design, assuredly insane, but with an internal logic.

Her head shoots up as the door opens, and Lecter steps through. She pulls her hand away, but it's too late; Lecter's seen, and barely pauses before speaking. "Hello, Abigail. Will."

"Hello, Professor," Will says, with a neutral sort of smile.

"Hannibal," Abigail begins, but Lecter gestures to cut her off, and sits across from them in one of the beautiful chairs furnishing the room. Abigail shakes her head and doesn't look at anyone.

"Abigail," Lecter says, all gentleness, "it's time."

She tenses, then tries to hide it. "I'm not sure -- "

"We have had this discussion." Lecter leans forward. "We would save your flame for a time of great need. I believe we have reached that point. Enemies are closing in."

Will tenses immediately. "What's going on?"

"Will," Lecter says patiently, "we need your help."

Will glances at Abigail; her face is pink, fingers knit together and wringing in her lap, and he looks back to Lecter. "What's going on," he repeats, more pointedly.

"Abigail is anointed not by me," Lecter answers, "but by the gods. Her blood will bless the congregation. But the others cannot know. They will fear for our future."

"Are you a sacrifice?" Will asks Abigail, to the point, shoulders hunched in worry.

"No." Abigail looks to Lecter, and breathes out slowly. "I'll do it. If he'll do it."

Lecter looks to Will. "You know our ritual," he says. "You must do the same with our Abigail."

"Rit -- " Will stops. "You want me to -- "

"Yes," Abigail cuts him off with, and touches Will's face carefully, as though she thinks his expression might crack into something terrible if she does something unwise. "I want this, Will, I promise."

She's seventeen. He can't have sex with a seventeen year old girl.

On the other hand, he's had sex multiple times with a cannibal cult leader. What is his line, exactly?

He looks Abigail in the face, and leans slightly into her touch. "Why me?" he asks.

"The strength of your heart," Lecter answers. "It fuels your light, a beacon which burns bright enough to bring my Abigail to you. It must be you."

Will knows in a flash what this is: another test. He must pass it. 

He leans over and kisses Abigail; she returns the kiss eagerly, desperate, wrapping herself intently around him. It's hard not to get caught up in it, to be swept away by her intensity, especially because _he wants this_, beyond just the sensation of sex that he's already gotten from Lecter after a long dry spell. Her warmth and soft skin and the fierce pressure of her mouth are too much for him, no matter her age.

As he helps her strip away her clothes, he realizes how small she is, how delicate, and how easy it would be for Lecter to break her into pieces and eat her for dinner if she chose to turn against him as Will would ask. He wants her, he wants to protect her. It's overwhelming. He kisses harshly against the skin of her neck, her collarbone, down to her breast and her nipple. Her breathing sharpens at the contact.

Lecter presses a knife into his free hand and he pauses, looks into Abigail's face; she takes his hand and gently guides the knife against her skin, skimming it against her collarbone. He takes the hint and starts to cut into her flesh, tasting the blood that flows.

Abigail gasps at the contact, as he slips lower and lower until he's worshipping on his knees. He pushes up her skirt and pulls down her panties, shamefully hard already. He kisses her thighs, then presses his face and his mouth between them, seeking her clit to tongue it over and over until she's breathing his name again and again.

"Cut," Lecter says, just loud enough to hear.

Will knows he must. He cuts into the flesh of Abigail’s thigh and she shudders. He tastes the blood, then ignores all of the ritual for the moment that he can press his fingers into her pussy. She moves against the contact, grasping her own breast as he begins to thrust his fingers into her hard, unrelenting, descending on her clit to lick at it again.

"Oh my god," Abigail gets out, then he can feel the muscles of her pussy twitching against his fingers as she comes and pants out his name again, again: "Will, Will, oh god."

Their eyes meet as she catches her breath, and he can't name what flows between them.

"Do it." Lecter's voice cuts through the moment. Will is so hard it hurts now. He yanks down his pants and shifts Abigail so he can press his cock inside of her. Part of him is screaming guilt in his mind, but he doesn't care. She's beautiful.

Abigail is totally undone, bleeding, making wonderful gasps as he presses harder and harder inside of her, until he's just fucking into her as though a harsh enough thrust will prove something she needs to know from him. Her fingernails dig sharp into his shoulders, and he takes the cue to kiss her harshly and pin her down to fuck her roughly until finally he jerks into her and comes.

"Oh," Abigail manages, and meets his gaze again.

Will has a terrible feeling about what rolls through him in that moment. He can't trust that emotion. He's never been able to, and right now, in this place, he can't afford to.

"Good," Lecter says, and takes back the knife. "Now, I will dress your wounds, Abigail. Will, we will see you tomorrow."

Will pulls in a breath. "Yes," he agrees, and casts a quick glance at Abigail before he yanks up his pants and withdraws.

As he walks away from the house, he wishes he was sorry, that he could name it as a mistake. But he knows he can't.

* * *

"Tell me about them," Freddie says to Will, as they sit among the memorials.

Will looks down at the recorder in her hand, and measures his response.

"Lecter is a psychopath," he answers. "He manipulates others into both accepting and committing violence. He makes them believe that it is consensual and loving."

She nods. "And Abigail? His accomplice?" she prompts.

"She's not an accomplice," Will defends reflexively. "He believes he does this to protect her, or so he's convinced himself. She's not party to all of this."

Freddie sighs. "Do you believe you're compromised when it comes to the girl?" she asks outright.

"No." It's a lie. Will doesn't care. "What I said is the truth. She's innocent, even though this is all centered on her."

"She’s right next to him," she returns. "Just like you."

He laughs, not happily. "No one said this would be easy."

Freddie gestures with her free hand. "From what I hear, you've been enjoying yourself."

"Are you a journalist or a gossipmonger?" Will shoots back.

"I'm just saying, the congregation doesn't have a tendency to lie," she answers mildly. "They say you're sexually involved with Lecter. Is that true?"

"I'm doing what I need to do," Will says flatly. "Are those all the questions you have for me?"

She smiles, the one that doesn't completely reach her eyes. "And what is your ultimate goal, Mr. Graham?"

"To discover what weapons Hannibal Lecter is ready to use when threatened." Will stands. "And we will. You just need to trust me."

"I'm trusting you to bring me something," Freddie says, and clicks the recorder off. "Go on."

Will leaves to rejoin the congregation, not remotely comforted by the prayers and candles. He rests on his cot and closes his eyes, the ghosts of the sacrifices chased away by thoughts of Abigail he knows he shouldn't entertain.

* * *

** _Week 12._ **

It's taking more time than he'd like.

Abigail is holding back, circling him just as Will circles her. Will knows more than ever that she's the key to, well, the key. He thinks she might be afraid, trying to protect her congregation, thinking back on her words: _I'm here to protect everyone. I know I'm seventeen. But I'm here to protect you._ Is it just the sacrament of her blood and her sex, or is it her position as anchor against Lecter's wrath?

The stress they both feel presses them together again and again. They have nothing to hide now but their horrible truths, and he fucks her over and over, pressing gentle kisses along her face and neck after.

"You're due to see Hannibal tonight," she murmurs.

"I know." He's been jerking off in the shower to some sick confused mixture of Lecter fucking him roughly and Abigail writhing beneath him. It would rattle him if he let himself think about it. "I still wanted to see you."

"Will." Her whisper is careful. "I need to talk to you."

"Talk," Will says softly, and pulls her into his arms, resting against her pillows.

Abigail lies there with him for a moment, then says it. "I know why you're here."

"Yes," he agrees after a pause. "I told you, the first time we spoke."

"No." She releases a slow breath. "The real reason."

Maybe he was right and she saw through him right away. Maybe Lecter's done the same. There's no way to know for sure until this all comes to a head. "Tell me what you think I'm doing here."

Her voice is barely audible. "I think you may be here to destroy us."

Will holds onto her. "I would never destroy you," he says. "You're innocent."

"But Hannibal?" Her voice is thick now. "You would hurt him."

Is he really doing this? "I would try not to. We don't want any more people to get hurt than already have been."

She buries her face in his shoulder silently, and he doesn't move but to press her a little closer. "Where would I go?" she whispers finally.

"We would find somewhere for you," Will promises softly. "You'll be eighteen in a month. You'll have a choice."

He can sense it in her body, the thought passing through her mind: _but this is my home._ He's so close. "I can help you," he goes on gently. "If you help me protect the congregation from what's coming. What has Hannibal got hidden in that room?"

Abigail's eyes are surprisingly dry when she withdraws. "I'll show you," she says, a tremor creeping through her voice. "If they're really coming -- I have to."

Somehow it shocks him. None of this was easy, but it's still incredible that after all this time, all this work, he may have done what he came here to do. 

But it's not over yet. "Get dressed. Meet me at the door in half an hour. I'll be there."

Abigail catches him before he moves and kisses him pointedly. "Promise," she says, as firm as he's ever heard her speak, and grabs her clothes. They both dress hurriedly. There's no time to waste.

* * *

Lecter is none the wiser when the three of them meet at the door in the compound in the early hours before anyone at all is awake. It's a heavy metal door, padlocked, and Abigail has the key. She unlocks it and steps carefully inside, gesturing for Freddie and Will to follow her.

It's dark inside. Freddie's been filming, and carries a flashlight. There's no point asking why they can't turn on the lights; it's best not to bring that kind of attention to what they're doing.

"Here," Abigail says softly, and they go to her. Gentle light comes from a refrigerator unit, and through its glass door he can see a plastic box packed tightly with bottles marked with fastidious, tiny writing and capped with a strange nozzle.

"What am I looking at," Freddie says under her breath.

"Biological weapons," Will says, tone flat. "Lecter's wrath."

* * *

Will goes on the grocery run. It's not among his usual duties at all, but it's an excuse to get out. He sneaks away with his burner phone and calls Jack.

"Jack," he starts.

"Jesus Christ, Will," Jack snaps. "Where have you been?"

"Look, I found out what's going on at Inherent Light," Will says rapidly. "They're doing consensual cannibalism, and Lecter has biological weapons, but it's not time yet. Give me time. I can do this."

"He has biological weapons? How -- " Jack seems to realize that's not the biggest problem here. "We need to get there now, Will, I'm sending -- "

"No, you can't," Will insists in a desperate whisper. "If you do, he'll kill the whole congregation and anyone else you send, anyone else it spreads to. I need to figure out a way to get the weapons out. Trust me, I can do it."

Jack sighs wearily. "Will, I should send -- "

"Don't send anyone else. They won't be trusted," Will fires back. "It took me this long to be trusted and I'm still not sure Lecter believes me, so -- I mean, all we need is to literally feed them another cop."

"You think they ate Etheridge?" Jack breathes out harshly. "Okay, I need you to _talk to me_, Will, I need to know that you're not in too deep there."

Well, Will can't promise that. His anxiety's peaking now just because some sick part of him feels like he's betraying the cannibal psychopath he's been fucking. "I've got this," he says flatly. "I'll talk to you soon, Jack." He hangs up, and gets back to his shopping list.

Hours later, Hannibal's fucking him senseless, yanking his head back by a grip in his curly hair and arching his back into it. Will knows he should hate him, but he comes so hard he sees white, and he's not sorry.

When it comes down to it, he'll do the right thing. It's just taking time.

* * *

** _Week 15._ **

Abigail is a mess.

She manages to hide it with Lecter, as far as Will can tell, but when they're together, the guilt seems to be eating away at her. She seduces him almost compulsively, every few days, and buries her face in his neck every time they finish to silently resist the urge to cry.

It's what he had to do, but it wasn't nice. She's going to need so much counseling after this - if they all survive.

The problem is the bus isn't available until next week. Jack is probably ready to murder him when he gets back.

Freddie appears near the memorials as Will and Abigail approach hand in hand, and smiles her non-smile. "What are we up to today?"

"Not much," Will says idly.

"Yeah, that's mostly what we've been doing," Freddie says, gaze sharpening. "Right?"

"We're getting there," Abigail speaks up, defensive.

"Are we?" Freddie fires back. "I'm not sure we are."

"Next week," Will says, dismissive. "The bus will be available. We'll go."

"You're just going to leave," Freddie clarifies.

Will sighs. "With the weapons. We have the evidence he had them here, but we need to remove them so he can't use them."

Freddie shifts. "I don't think that sounds like a good idea," she says.

"Would you rather the FBI raid this place and Lecter rig the area to be flooded with unknown diseases?" he retorts.

"It's the only way," Abigail cuts in, clearly reinforcing her voice to stay calm. "He _will_ use them."

"Have you checked in with your handlers about this?" Freddie asks Will, ignoring Abigail.

Will doesn't bother answering that. "Abigail, let's go."

"If you don't talk to them, I will," Freddie says directly.

Will snaps. "Do you want everyone here to die, every agent that approaches to die? I did what I came here to do, now I'm going to finish this. I asked you to trust me."

"I trust you." Freddie stares between them, then puts her hands up. "Next week," she says. "Let me know."

"Let's go," Will mutters, and leads Abigail away.

* * *

** _Week 16._ **

It's time.

Abigail has the keys to the bus and the compound door. Within an hour, they're going to steal the weapons and take them to the bus, to drive them to the nearest FBI office along with the photographic and video evidence.

Will still has his doubts that it's going to be that simple. He steels himself for what he has to do. He may have promised Abigail that Lecter would survive, but they need something to delay his attention on the escape. A fuck isn't enough.

He takes it all in as Lecter fucks him for what he doesn't realize is going to be the last time. The look on Lecter's face is obsessed, transcendent, and Will knows that even if he can't trust Lecter, that Lecter doesn't trust him, that he's won _something_ in this battle. He grips the duvet and resists the urge to moan at Lecter's rough thrusts, the harsh press of his fingers into Will's hip. 

"Give in," Lecter breathes, and Will nearly does. It takes everything within him to haul himself back to what he needs to do.

The knife is cast aside as Lecter plows into him roughly, and Will groans helplessly as his fingers creep towards the knife. He can't help it; he fucking loves this.

_Get your shit together, Will. Lecter is evil._

That part of him that calls this compound and his place in Lecter and Abigail's beds both home, it tries to stay his hand. He presses his eyes shut as he closes his hand around the handle of the knife that has scarred him, then forces them open as he slams the knife into Lecter's gut.

Lecter's eyes fly open, and he doesn't react quickly enough. Blood drips down Will's hand from the first wound before he pulls it out to stab Lecter once more, then Lecter's got his hands around Will's throat and is pressing him down, cock still hard in his ass. The skin-to-skin contact between their bodies is wet and sticky with hot blood as Lecter fucks Will a few more strokes before coming inside him, stars blooming in Will's vision from the pressure.

Will gasps for air and instinctively stabs him one more time and yanks the blade up through his flesh as best he can; Lecter releases him then, fumbling to the side and away from Will, pressing his hand to his bleeding torso, with too many wounds to cover. "I knew," Lecter gets out. "I knew what you were. And I loved you still."

He has to go, but he scrambles back, stares blankly for a moment as the rift in his mind threatens a horrible lump in his throat.

_Are you a monster too? Was this necessary?_

"Goodbye, Professor," he manages, and yanks his clothes on before he flees.

He snatches up his pack from the sleeping area, and walks hurriedly to where Freddie waits at the door.

"Where's Abigail?" she demands.

"I don't know. We have to go," Will says pointedly.

Freddie sighs. "We can't without Abigail."

"I know that," he says, terse.

Abigail appears, and rushes for Will, hugging him around the middle. He kisses her temple, but Freddie cuts in with, "We don't have the time for this."

Will sighs in irritation, and accepts the keys from Abigail, opening the door as Freddie begins to film. They hurry in and wrap the box in a blanket, Abigail carrying them gingerly as they go.

The bus starts with no one the wiser. They run.

* * *

"Jack," Will says into the burner phone once they've actually got service on the drive, "we've got it."

"Where are you," Jack says flatly.

"On our way to the nearest FBI office," Will says, startled. "It's a bit of a hike."

"Will," Freddie says softly.

Will shakes his head at her. "We've got the weapons, we'll be there -- "

"_Will._" Freddie shoves her phone in his face to show him: it's an article warning that two suspects in a murder that took place in a home not far from the compound are fleeing south to the Albany area. The descriptions of the male and female suspects are remarkably precise to the two adults in the bus. Great.

"Jack." Will pauses, panic stirring in his stomach. "You have to know what's happening right now."

"I know you attacked Lecter," Jack says, blunt, "and I know you got out, but I also know you spent four months in that place and I have no idea how you came out."

"I didn't murder anyone," Will insists, phone pressed tight to his ear. "Neither did Freddie."

"You need to bring those weapons to us," Jack says, blunt, "and if you surrender yourselves we can figure all this out."

"Jack, we're going to -- " Fuck. Will hangs up.

"What's happening?" Abigail asks, hugging the weapons to her chest.

"We're not going to the FBI," Will says, tone even. "Or the police." He takes the other fork in the road. "We're going to figure this out."

* * *

** _Week 17._ **

They get a crap hotel room with twin beds with some of the money they stole from the congregation's pot. With all that Lecter bilked out of them, it's easy enough to pay for a week's worth of time there, and garbage food from gas stations and vending machines while they wait for things to cool down.

The biological weapons are unnerving sitting in the corner, but there's really nothing to be done about that.

Freddie sleeps like a rock. Will and Abigail, to their credit, don't have sex to test the parameters of that, but it means they can speak freely.

Abigail traces the light knife scars on Will's chest. "I don't want to go to jail," she whispers.

"You're not going to go to jail," Will promises.

"You can't promise me that -- "

"You were a minor," Will points out. "You're a cult survivor. They'll understand. And you never hurt anyone yourself."

"It doesn't feel that way." She touches his face. "And if you go to jail…"

"I have a plan," he assures her.

"I don't want you to go to jail." Abigail holds his gaze. "Will, I…"

He kisses her, soft and reassuring and chaste, and holds onto her. They rest in silence until Will glances back at the clock, and shifts out of bed to get the second burner phone out from his pack. He makes the call.

"Jack," Will says, to the point, "we'll give you everything we have on Inherent Light if we get immunity for any charges for what happened while we were there. We did not murder that woman and her husband, and I'm sure we have proof."

"Your blood and semen were found at the site, Will," Jack says with a sigh. "It's not looking good for you, but if you turn yourself in, we can -- '

His blood and semen. Of course. "It's Lecter," he snaps. "He had all that, he's using it against me -- look, you need the weapons, you need the evidence against Inherent Light, we'll give it to you." He's rattled. He's so tense he can barely breathe. "So we'll do a drop, and go from there."

"You're saying Lecter framed you," Jack clarifies.

"Yes," Will says evenly. "We'll make the drop in the dog park in east Albany."

"You're not just going to abandon a package of biological weapons," Jack says skeptically.

Will looks across the room to where Freddie still sleeps. "No," he says. "Eight pm." He hangs up.

"Will," Abigail says carefully.

"We're fine," Will says automatically. "We're- we're fine."

He wakes Freddie after he can't bear to wait any longer.

"What?" she mutters, rubbing her eyes.

"We need to do a drop," he says, and offers a very dry half-smile. "Want to draw straws?"

Freddie sits up and draws a knee up to her chest on the bed. "No. I'll do it."

That surprises him. "Are you sure?"

"They have evidence you were supposedly there. They don't _really_ have evidence that I was there, just Lecter's tip." Freddie shrugs. "You did your plan. Let me do mine."

"You have a plan?" Will asks, eyebrows raised.

"I always have a plan," Freddie answers. "And sometimes they even work out."

* * *

Will and Abigail wait for the call in the hotel room.

It's eight-thirty. Freddie was due to make the drop half an hour ago. Will starts to pace; he knows they've taken Freddie in, but he was expecting a response by now on the burner phone.

"Will, please," Abigail starts.

"I know. I know." He makes himself settle, and sits down on Freddie's still messy bed. "It's just…"

"Will." He doesn't look up right away, but when he does, she's wearing an expression he's never seen before, some confused and upset mix of guilt, fear, and trust. "Please promise me they're going to be okay."

He really can't, but it's not as though Inherent Light has been trained for violence besides cutting up each other's skin to taste blood. He doubts they'll storm the FBI with knives. "I promise the agents will be very keen to avoid hurting anyone."

She doesn't seem convinced. "But they might."

"Only if provoked, Abigail. I swear."

"If they get hurt," Abigail says sharply, "it's all my fault."

"What?" Will shakes his head. "No, no."

She shakes her head, too. "It would all be normal if I hadn't -- "

"You did the right thing," he promises. "Everyone's going to be okay."

"Okay," she relents. Mostly she doesn't seem to want to talk about it anymore. He releases a slow breath, and looks down. When he does, he sees Freddie's laptop, with a note that says _Open me_ on the top. He pauses, then reaches for it and opens it up.

"What are you -- " Abigail starts, but he raises a hand to stop her as he looks at the browser screen that pops up immediately. It's Tattlecrime.com, Freddie's website, and the front page is emblazoned with the headline _An Unholy Church_.

There are a slew of pictures, some videos, quotes from Will, everything Freddie found in her research. "Dear god," he says, astounded, and Abigail climbs onto the bed behind him.

"What does this mean?" she asks, leaning on his shoulder.

Will's eye is on the video of him, Freddie, and Abigail, nearest the bottom, and the timestamp: _02:03 11/28_

"She's done it."

* * *

** _Week 18. _ **

In the end, they aren't there to see Inherent Light go down. The morning that the FBI and SWAT swarm the compound and the house, Abigail and Will are curled up on his couch, waiting for the news to hit the TV.

From above, the helicopters focus in on the police marching Hannibal Lecter out to a cop car.

Will's phone rings. He eyes the name displayed, and answers, putting her on speakerphone. "Freddie."

"You're seeing this," Freddie says.

"Yeah. Bloodless coup." Well, mostly bloodless.

"Those people are going to need as much help as they can get." Freddie pauses. "Will you, Will?"

"No." Will doesn't do therapists. He knows it's denial that the split in his mind will simply fade with time away from Inherent Light, but he doesn't dare let the darkness inside him be examined for fear of what else will be dug out in the process. He may not survive that.

Still. Abigail and Will haven't touched a knife besides cooking since they left, but it may be a matter of time. He refuses to think about it, for fear of egging on the part of him on the other side of that rift.

"I know I do," Abigail speaks up. "And that's okay."

"Yes," Will says immediately.

"And the rest of the congregation, too." Abigail looks at him, though she's speaking to both of them. "I'm glad I got a chance to tell the police everything I know. It's… only fair to the rest of the congregation. They weren't violent people."

Strange to think, but she's probably right. None of them murdered the sacrifices. Most of them didn't even eat human flesh. All they did was cut each other's arms, worship two non-divine humans, pray, and have talk therapy circles. The death was all Lecter. 

"I think there might be something to a book," Freddie says. "The two of you, at the center of Inherent Light. What do you think?"

Abigail glances away instantly, and Will cuts in for her defense. "We'll think about it."

"Let me know," Freddie says. "Hey, take care of yourselves."

"We will," Will says, and hangs up. He reaches for the remote to turn off the TV. "Let's get out of here."

"Are you sure you want to go?" Abigail asks, moving her fingers into the curls of his hair for the usual distraction.

He smiles faintly at the flirtation. "Yeah. Let's walk."

"Okay," she agrees, and pets a dog or two before they head to get their boots and coats on to tromp through the snow. The dogs need to get out anyway.

From a distance, the lit-up house looks like a beacon to something better.

* * *

** _Week 22._ **

A letter arrives at their home, marked in deliberate, beautiful handwriting, for Will Graham and Abigail Hobbs.

Will accepts it from Abigail, and throws it into the fire.

It's over. It has to be.


End file.
